


Hermione Granger and the Burden of Responsibility

by Squirrelloid



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-09-17
Updated: 2012-11-29
Packaged: 2017-11-14 11:48:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/514911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Squirrelloid/pseuds/Squirrelloid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Accused of attempting to kill Draco Malfoy, Hermione is threatened with Azkaban.  Only Harry Potter has the will and means to save her.  The problem is that Harry has a mysterious dark side which eats people.  Sometimes being rescued is at least as bad as being eaten by dementors!   It becomes painfully clear to Hermione that no one - not Dumbledore, not McGonagall, not the government of magical Britain itself - is willing to be truly responsible.  No one except Harry Potter, and Hermione isn't sure Magical Britain will survive his mad plots.  Someone has to do something, and if you want something done right, sometimes you just have to do it yourself.</p>
<p>This is a single point of divergence from the fanfic Harry Potter and the Methods of Rationality (www.hpmor.com)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Harry Potter and the Methods of Rationality](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/11532) by Less Wrong (Eliezer Yudkowsky). 



> This is a single point of divergence story. Specifically, the divergence starts in the middle of its chapter 82. At the time of this writing HP:MoR is still in progress, and I only know of the events through the current chapter (now 85), so there may and probably will be more divergences, intentional or not, as time goes on. Certainly I'm not going to follow what's going on in HP:MoR slavishly, and background that has not yet been revealed I'll need to create my own material for. (As will become apparent by the end of this chapter, the present is going to be diverging wildly, enjoy the ride!)
> 
> I will, by necessity, need to borrow some text from chapter 82 of MoR to establish the place in the story and provide for continuity. Unfortunately, all the ways in which I might typically designate this text would compromise the flow of the story in some instances. I trust the astute reader will have read chapter 82 MoR anyway and be able to distinguish my text from Less Wrong's. Consider this an explicit acknowledgement that I have borrowed some text, and that all appropriate text should be properly attributed to him. Most of the borrowed text occurs from the start to "The boy took a deep breath, and opened his mouth -". I wish I could have borrowed less text, but there's a lengthy internal monologue in the middle of the two parts that I actually need.
> 
> If you have not read HP:MoR yet, I strongly suggest you do so. It is, however, a daunting task, given its immense size. At the very least, you should read its chapters 78-82 (which is actually a surprisingly good starting point for the middle of the story).

"I acknowledge the debt, but the law does not strictly oblige me to accept it in cancellation," said Lord Malfoy with a grim smile. "The girl is no part of House Potter; the debt I owe House Potter is no debt to her. As for the _dishonor_ -" Lucius Malfoy paused. "As for the grave shame I feel at my ingratitude toward the Potters, who have done so much for me -" Lucius Malfoy bowed his head. "May my ancestors forgive me."

"Well, boy?" called the scarred man sitting at Lord Malfoy's right hand. "Go and destroy Azkaban, then!"

"I'd like to see that," said another voice. "Will you be selling tickets?"

It went without saying that Harry didn't pick this particular moment to give up.

_The girl is no part of House Potter -_

He had, in fact, seen the obvious way out of the dilemma almost instantly.

It might have taken him longer if he hadn't recently overheard a number of conversations between older Ravenclaw girls, and read a certain number of Quibbler stories.

He was, nonetheless, having trouble accepting it.

_This is ridiculous,_ said a part of Harry which had just dubbed itself the Internal Consistency Checker. _Our actions here are completely incoherent. First you feel less emotional reluctance to risk your bloody LIFE and probably DIE for Hermione, than to part with a stupid heap of gold. And now you're balking just at getting married?_

_SYSTEM ERROR._

_You know what?_ said Internal Consistency Checker. _You're stupid._

_I didn't say no,_ thought Harry. _I was just saying SYSTEM ERROR._

_I vote for destroying Azkaban,_ said Gryffindor. _It needs to be done anyway._

_Really, really stupid,_ said Internal Consistency Checker. _Oh, screw this, I'm assuming control of our body._

The boy took a deep breath, and opened his mouth -

"Oh, and Master Potter," Lord Malfoy said, "it is well known to this assembly that there are ways in which the girl could become part of House Potter. However, following the tragic events of 1734, in which a certain Archibald Broomhandle attempted to compel poor Aelwen ferch Olwydd to marry him, by arranging circumstances not so disimilar to these – not that I mean to impugn the honor of House Potter in this matter, you could hardly be responsible at your age," Lucius smiled and continued, "the Wizengamot no longer recognizes any sort of contract as relevant to its proceedings if it was not in force before the start of those proceedings."

...and closed his mouth.

"By all means, if you wish to bring her into your house after these deliberations have finished, feel free to continue."

_So, Azkaban?_ said Gryffindor.

_They have dementors not in Azkaban,_ Ravenclaw unhelpfully pointed out. _Not many, but enough to damage a 12 year old girl._

_The only way to protect Hermione is to demonstrate our dominance over the Wizengamot,_ said Slytherin. _We need leverage._

_What happens if we escalate?_ asked Ravenclaw. _What happens if we choose to lose?_

_Losing means Hermione dies._

_Unacceptable!_ said Hufflepuff.

_We know dragons can be slain,_ said Gryffindor.

While Harry's inner monologue was ongoing, his feet carried him past a stunned Professor McGonagall, and down the dark stone stairs to where Hermione and the dementor were. His attention was fixed on her, her eyes puffy and cheeks wet with tears. Jeers from Lord Malfoy's side of the Wizengamot slid off him.

_You do understand she is never going to accept this,_ said Slytherin.

He stopped before the metal chair.

Harry was not one to stop finding solutions just because he had some candidates. Because some days would be like today, where all the straightforward solutions would be exhausted without effect. This wasn't even his last idea, he'd passed it over originally because it was dangerous. Danger was scary. And because its effects would be permanent. Terribly permanent. Irreversibly permanent.

"Attempting to send a 12 year old girl to Azkaban is an act of war."

It was not what anyone was expecting him to say. There was silence for a full minute.

"How do you intend to fight a war, boy, with no weapons," said the scarred man next to Lord Malfoy, a bemused smile on his face. "And against all of magical Britain no less."

Harry turned, slowly, to face the Wizengamot. He stood straight, head erect, eyes cold as he surveyed the gathered lords and ladies. He could feel the dementor behind him through the two Patronuses.

"You brought me a weapon," Harry said, the pure high pitch of a young boy's voice imcompatible with the deadly seriousness with which it was said. "In your hubris and your arrogance you imagined yourselves it's master."

Some few eyes glanced at the dementor. Dumbledore was looking very sharply at Harry.

Harry was recalling, quite distinctly, facing down a dozen dementors with nothing but a thought and a command. State of mind was key when dealing with dementors. People – other people that is, never Harry – could hear dementors speak because they imagined dementors had minds and could talk. Expectation drove observation. Set up the right expectation, and people's beliefs would cause the dementor to behave in that way. Reinforce it by projecting his own belief at the dementor in a forceful way and the outcome should be a foregone conclusion.

"In a moment, I'm going to cancel the Patronuses and prevent any more from being cast. Then _my_ dementor is going to kiss everyone who voted to send a 12 year old girl to Azkaban."

There was a sharp gasp from off to his right where Professor McGonagall was sitting. Then the room erupted into laughter. Dumbledore was frowning, his eyes looking down and right as if working through a puzzle.

Of course, they didn't believe him yet. The dementor was still 'safely' behind two Patronuses. It was a shocking claim. - two shocking claims actually. It was also certain that no one believed he could actually cancel the Patronuses. No one except Harry. There's a funny thing with belief. Make one unlikely statement and people will reject it out of hand. Make two unlikely statements, and then demonstrate the truth of one, and people were much more likely to believe both. Because he had comingled them, their truth values would be conflated in the minds of the Wizengamot.

And the problem with the Patronus charm was that it worked by tricking your mind into holding onto the right thoughts. The actual manifestation wasn't necessary – thinking the right thoughts was sufficient to protect you from dementors, but it was _hard_. Hard to keep the mind focused on the right thoughts. The charm provided several useful features: it provided a concrete and physical action you could take, it gave you a totem that you could point to and say 'that is providing me safety', and it shielded others by putting those thoughts between the dementor and them rather than just in your own head. The last was a useful effect, but the others were only useful insofar as they gave you _confidence_. One problem was that all that confidence was built on an incorrect understanding of dementors. The real problem was that achieving that confidence when faced with the truth behind dementors required an entirely different kind of happy thought.

So all Harry had to do was speak the truth and the Patronuses would pop. One of his two unlikely claims being demonstrated, the members of the Wizengamot would instantly lend credence to his second claim, and their collective belief would drive the dementor's action.

It was Dumbledore who cut through the laughter and brought the room to silence.

"No Harry! Don't!"

Into that silence a boy's voice spoke: "The dementors are Death, and the Patronus charm works by thinking about happy thoughts instead of Death."

Two seconds later, he snapped his fingers.

The Patronuses behind him popped like soap bubbles.

And Harry, filling his mind with the earth among the stars, thrust that thought at Death and said "Kiss everyone who voted to send Hermione to Azkaban, but spare Lucius Malfoy."

The dementor struck many down before they even had a chance to react. Shock and surprise prevented any quick response. As the reality sunk in, suddenly the assembly sprang into motion. Wizards scrambled to their feet, tripping over seats and stumbling into others. Some few drew their wands, far too late, but no Patronuses appeared. Charles Notte attempted to apparate away, forgetting in his panic that most of the ministry was warded against apparition. A handful managed to extricate themselves from the benches to make a dash down the stairs for the door. They didn't make it. The dementor kissed them all. And when it was finished, an impossibly short time later, the Dementor stood before Harry Potter.

Fifty-five. That was the number of the corpses that surrounded the cowering Lucius Malfoy in the stone hall of the Wizengamot. A woman was being noisily sick among the benches for spectators.

Three aurors and a good number of the remaining dignitaries of the Wizengamot all had their wands pointed at Harry.

"I might observe that the only person capable of casting a Patronus in this room is me, much less controlling the dementor at all. And you will all be thinking much clearer with a Patronus present. I recommend you lower your wands and allow me to do so."

The wands lowered, slowly.

"Expecto Patronum!" Harry said, and a brilliantly glowing person manifested before Harry. There were gasps from around the room. The Dementor hung loosely in the air, seemingly unaware of anyone or anything.

_You know,_ said Gryffindor, _I'm not sure **I'm** ok with what we just did._

_Not now._

"Hermione, are you ok," Harry said, turning his head.

"No," her voice weak, "Never. Ok. Again."

She was afraid of him, he could see it in her eyes.

"Release her, please," Harry said to the Auror closest to him. "And she's going to need a wand, so unless you happen to have hers on you, I suppose yours will have to do."

Gawain Robards looked plaintively up to the remaining members of the Wizengamot, where Amelia Bones slowly nodded her head. He then tapped the manacles with a short metal rod and they fell away, and while looking at Harry he offered his wand to Hermione.

"Hermione, there's something we need to do."

The look of horror on her face was painful for him to look at. "Haven't you done enough," she said. She stood up but looked ready to bolt.

"Something Fawkes would want us to do." He held his left hand out to her.

Hermione looked up, over Harry's shoulder, to where Fawkes and Dumbledore were. Her face changed, conflicted, the horror warring with something else. He didn't think he could look where Dumbledore was, he was too close to breaking emotionally already. She took his hand as if he might bite her.

"Only because Fawkes wants it."

"Mr. Potter," said Lucius Malfoy, standing, confusion writ on his face. "Why am I alive?"

He considered Lucius for a moment. Then his face softened.

"Because Draco is my friend, and Draco loves his father," he said softly.

Lucius sat down abruptly, looking like he'd been struck.

And Harry turned his attention to the Dementor, where his wand was still pointed and his Patronus stood idly waiting. And the Earth among the stars filled his mind, the promise of a future without death. He heard Hermione gasp beside him as his patronus became impossibly bright, drowning out the other gasps from the room. When it faded, there wasn't a Dementor anymore.

Harry let his Patronus fade. He turned his attention to the remaining members of the Wizengamot.

Loudly he said, "I seem to recall this council just voted to send Hermione to Azkaban. I've changed my mind, I agree."

And Harry filled his mind with fire and righteous fury. A Phoenix soared among the stars above the earth in his thoughts. Then Fawkes was there beside him, in the Wizengamot chambers, and then he and Hermione and the Phoenix were gone.

* * *

For about the tenth time in the last two hours, Amelia Bones's mind failed her. She knew she should be doing something, but she just couldn't process what she'd seen. A muggle might have called it a system error, a blue screen of death, all she knew was her brain just wasn't working.

_The boy said what? And then what? And then what? And then half the Wizengamot was dead? And then what? What? What!_

Amelia Bones was not used to being this flummoxed. She had thought herself reasonably paranoid. She'd never prepared for this. No one expected a 12 year old boy who could command Dementors. No one expected _anyone_ who could pop patronuses without even touching their wand.

One thing and only one thing was clear, she knew where he was going. Azkaban.

_Why in the... Oh. Shit._

The boy who could command Dementors without a wand was gone to Azkaban. She should do something about this.

She found she was sitting, so she stood up. Then she stopped.

_What do I do? Any aurors I send will be unable to defend themselves against dementors..._

She sat down again.

_I have a time turner in my office. I have 6 hours to figure out what to do._

She looked at Dumbledore. Dumbledore had his head in both hands, elbows on the podium, and... was he crying? That wasn't a good sign.

_I don't think 6 hours is going to be enough time._

Which was about when the rest of the remaining members of the Wizengamot started to come out of shock. Eyes started to turn towards her. She held up a hand to forestall any questions.

"I have no idea what I am going to do. What I _can_ do. But if anyone has any suggestions, please, I am desperately in need of suggestions."

No one said anything.

_Six hours is definitely not going to be enough time._


	2. Azkaban

There was a sense of burning and fire and flames, pure and warm, and then, suddenly, she was a person again.

The fear was the first thing to hit her. Familiar, mind-numbing horror smashed into her brain, magnified one-hundred times above any previous experience.

A few seconds later she heard the boy's voice say "Expecto Patronum" and the horror went away. Then she remembered the last 20 minutes.

Fifty people dead on the word of an eleven-year-old boy. For her.

Hermione felt sick. There was an empty feeling near where _The Biology of Man_ assured her the pancreas took up residence. And her brain kept insisting on playing back the murders in the Wizengamot in phantasmagoric slow motion. It was the eyes that haunted her. Terrified one moment, utterly empty the next, and the dream-images hung on each corpse across the space of those moments and let her savor it in detail.

It wasn't just that Harry Potter terrified her. And he did terrify her. But now she was complicit. Responsible.

This inevitably sent her thoughts spiraling to her last morning at Hogwarts, where, knowing she had killed – attempted to kill – Draco Malfoy, she had done nothing in the hopes she wouldn't be caught.

True horror, she realized, was not the artificial fear of dementors. True horror was a consequence of choices made for the worse, and having to live with those choices and their consequences. A patronus, or even just running away, would dispel the horror imposed by a dementor. There was nowhere to run from herself.

She realized Harry was looking at her. Sad. Hurt? Then she realized the hand she had given him before was withdrawn as if she'd been bitten. Was that _it_? What about what he'd done _to her_?

 _Think of something else._ Fine silty mud sucked at her shoes as she shifted her feet. She noticed her robe was wet from far more than sweat and tears, and realized it was raining. A driving drizzle, if such a thing was possible. Heavy stone walls were vaguely visible through the rain in each of three directions. _Where am I?_ At least that's what she meant to ask.

Instead she screamed "I'm only twelve!" into the rain. Totally overwhelmed, she collapsed to her knees and started crying.

She didn't know how long she knelt in the ooze crying. Once started, the tears just wouldn't stop. At one point she felt Harry put his hand on her shoulder, but she couldn't even summon the will to shake him off.

Then suddenly there was warmth and comfort, like the best hugs her dad gave her. The warmth landed on her left shoulder and brushed against her cheek, cawing softly. She wiped her eyes before looking up.

"Fawkes?" She had forgotten he was there.

Fawkes lifted his head and screamed loudly towards the sky and the rain. She turned her head to look at Harry, who was looking down at her.

"We're in Azkaban, Hermione. The very center. Where the dementors are kept."

She felt the impulse to run in terror, but the peace from the Phoenix reinforced her resolve. She couldn't feel the dementors at all. _Why are we in Azkaban?_ She noticed Harry's patronus, still standing in silent vigil.

"We need to destroy them. All of them."

It was definitely all too much. She was probably going insane.

"I can't even cast a patronus, how are _we_ going to do that!"

"You can, you just haven't thought about the problem."

She wasn't sure what her facial expression was, but she was certain it was good impression of Professor McGonagall. Skeptical would be far too kind a word.

"Hermione, what are dementors?"

"Fear."

"No."

_What?_

Was this a riddle? Hermione was pretty good at riddles, but this was a riddle that apparently most of the wizarding world got _wrong_.

_Wait, hadn't Harry said something before the world went totally insane and people died?_

Hermione hadn't really been paying that much attention to what Harry was saying in the Wizengamot. There'd been the horror of the dementor behind her, and the horror of her impending sentence to Azkaban before her. To say she hadn't been thinking clearly was an understatement of gross proportion. But she had an excellent memory.

_Dementors are death._

She wasn't sure that made sense. Yes, death was fearsome. Many people were afraid of dying. _She_ was afraid of dying. But she was afraid of lots of things, including a certain 11-year-old boy, and she was pretty sure _he_ wasn't _death_. Well, reasonably sure.

On the other hand, Harry was meticulous about "testing hypotheses", to the point where he disregarded the accumulated wisdom of older wizards. She still remembered the bats. He would have collected evidence. Hadn't he been asking other students what they saw when they looked at the dementor back in January...?

"Harry, why were you asking the others what they saw when they looked at the dementor? In January, I mean, when we were learning the Patronus charm?"

"That's not quite the right question."

"You are very frustrating."

So, what was the right question... Well, he also saw the dementor. Maybe he wanted to see if the others saw something like what he saw?

"Did you see the same thing they did?"

"No."

_What?_

"What _did_ you see?"

"Initially? Nothing."

_!?_

"Nothing?"

"Dementors' appearances, like their actions, conform to the expectations of people around them. Because most people believe false things about dementors, they see only falsehood. My brain caught itself trying to clothe the dementor in a lie and wouldn't let it, so I couldn't actually see it. To see a dementor for what it really is, you have to discover the truth."

And then Hermione was thinking about Godric Gryffindor's biography, which she had read cover to cover and cried afterwards. _Dementors are wounds in the world._ Not dead people or other nightmarish concoctions. Wounds. Nothingness. He had known, as Harry knew.

"I suppose we need to go find a dementor then." Hermione couldn't believe she had just said that.

"That shouldn't be hard." Harry deadpanned.

Godric had enough courage to see the truth. Hermione could live up to his example. She had enough courage to have gone in front of a dementor knowing her patronus wouldn't work. She could be a hero, a real hero, despite her fear and her doubt. And her guilt.

It didn't take them long to find a dementor.

The dementor was just hanging in the air limply, totally unaware of anything. No sense of fear attacked Hermione's senses as they approached it.

"Are they supposed to do that?"

"My patronus is kind of overwhelming for them."

They stood there for a few moments in the muck, looking up at it.

"Um, Hermione, I can't really dispel my patronus safely. There's over 100 dementors down here and I'd need to be sure you could call one up immediately if I was even going to attempt that."

"The fear is just a distraction anyway, right? It helps sustain the delusion?"

Harry nodded.

Hermione stared at the dementor hanging in space. She thought of how fearsome the dementor had been in January. She couldn't even look at it then. How it had spoken to her. Except it had told her exactly what she wanted and expected yet feared to hear. She had been worried for Harry, and distrustful of the Professor Quirrel, and she had heard it tell her that the defense professor wanted it to eat Harry. Her thoughts, her fears, projected on the dementor and speaking through the dementor's mouth. It was hard overcoming the power of memory even with it motionless and unaware.

Godric Gryffindor hadn't looked away when he had seen the truth, she was sure of it.

_I can be a hero. I am a hero. You frighten me but I am stronger than my fear._

But in that moment her guilt nearly overcame her. How could she be a hero now? Her complicity in Draco's attempted murder, her complicity in the murders in the Wizengamot – these were not the actions of a hero! That was when she realized that dementors didn't really frighten her anymore. Dementors were nothing next to her own guilt.

Where at first the dementor had held an appearance of a terrible death, bloated, organs dangling from large tears in the flesh, it was now merely emaciated and sickly looking.

 _You no longer frighten me._ Hermione stepped closer. _Your form is a lie._

She was standing just before it now. Fawkes radiated heat from her shoulder.

_No more lies._

In the space of a blink it was gone. Before her there was a nothingness of substance where her mind refused to let her see.

_I name you. You are death._

And there, in the mud and rain in the middle of Azkaban, Hermione saw death and comprehended it.

"Show me how to destroy them," she said without turning. Maybe she couldn't be a hero anymore, but her fear of dementors was broken.

* * *

Auror Li still wasn't sure what was going on. It wasn't that the recent communication from Director Bones was unusual – it was far beyond unusual – it was her mood. She was shaken. This wasn't the all-business director who, while outraged and alarmed, hadn't just given up when Bellatrix Black escaped. She took charge and had done everything in her power to re-apprehend the fugitive. That she had thus far failed to recapture her hadn't slowed her down. But this...

He looked down at the orders he had requested in writing. _If you see anything unusual happening, report it immediately. Do not investigate._

And Director Bones had seemed... beaten. Li couldn't remember her ever being beaten. He had a terrible sense of foreboding. Something awful had happened, not that anyone was telling him anything, and it wasn't something as _simple_ as "Bellatrix Black has escaped from Azkaban" or even "Voldemort has returned". What could possibly be so much worse than that? What could have happened to break Director Bones?

Li looked out the window facing inward to the pit where the dementors stayed from across the room. Something that Director Bones thought was going to manifest here in Azkaban. Expected it to. There was no reason for these orders otherwise.

Auror Li shuddered.

* * *

Hermione was certain that this wasn't how things were supposed to work.

"Your happy thought is _what?_ "

"My rejection of death as part of the natural order."

"You just _killed_ 50 people, not one hour ago!"

"Have we not moved past that yet?"

"It was _less than_ an _hour_ ago!"

Hermione stormed off a couple paces. She wasn't feeling much like herself. Her guilt was gnawing at her, and it was making her moody and surly. It threatened to overwhelm her and reduce her to tears again. She needed a warm fire and a cup of tea and chocolate. Lots of chocolate. And a good book. And a day, a week, a month with no Harry Potter. His presence kept reminding her of those awful moments.

"I can't do this Harry. I'm not good enough. I can't be a hero."

"You're the most good person I know," Harry said softly.

Tears gathered at the corner of her eyes. When would she be able to stop crying? She turned halfway. "I feel so guilty."

"You haven't done anything. You were False Memory Charmed into thinking you had killed Draco."

"I did. I woke up and knew, or thought I knew, what had happened and said nothing. And then there's all those people dead..."

"Which is entirely my fault. You were helpless at the time."

"I _asked._ And I _should_ have known what _you_ might have done. Professor Quirrel was right, you are dangerous."

…

"I can't believe I said that..." she finished quietly.

"That you should have known?"

"That Professor Quirrel was right."

...

"Hermione," Harry began, pausing to find words. "I think its your guilt that makes you such a good person. You can't move past these things because you know they were wrong. And the very fact that you were even connected to something wrong upsets you horribly. Villains don't feel guilty about doing the wrong thing."

When she didn't say anything he continued.

"Maybe its guilt that makes heroes, real heroes, attempt to do the right things. Because they understand the consequences better than most, or feel them more keenly."

It was remarkable what words could do. Not that it made everything better, although she supposed that was part of the point, it was never going to be completely better. She needed to remember how awful it was. But those words gave her hope and perspective. Maybe it wasn't goodness that was lost, just innocence. The gnawing emptiness lessened a little bit. Just a little, but it was enough.

And hero or no, she couldn't let feeling guilty stop her from doing the right thing now. Dementors were evil, and destroying them was the right thing.

"Ok Harry, I'm together enough. For this. For now. Tell me about your happy thought."

And so Harry described the stars in space, perfect and coldly beautiful. He described the completion of the image, the earth as seen from space, among the stars. And you could feel the emotion in Harry's words as he described it – this was something he truly cared about. It was a wonderful image.

But her intuition was that Harry wasn't right. Couldn't possibly be right. Not completely. And yet there was Harry's Patronus, bright and pure in the drizzle.

_This is just another riddle. I'm smart enough to solve this._

Dementors weren't physically Death. Sure, they could kill you, but so could a lorry if it hit you. And if you weren't being strictly literal, people weren't the only things who died. Dreams died. Hopes failed. Innocence was lost. Magic faded. People died a little inside every time these things happened. Small deaths before the final one.

She remembered reading _The Lord of the Rings_ and being upset at the end because all the magic was going away. It was ineffably sad, as if all bright colors were become muted and pale.

She had watched in horror as the Wizengamot debated her fate, and those who might have championed her remained silent.

She remembered her shame as Snape castigated her and S.P.H.E.W. She remembered Dumbledore saying nothing. Professor McGonagall hadn't even shown up.

People let evil happen by failing to take action to stop it.

She needed to believe in a future of dreams fulfilled, evil vanquished, and hopes undimmed. She needed a world without all those deaths of spirit. But describing this world in swaths of pretty words wasn't enough. She needed a crystal clear vision, primal, her own metaphor for victory over death. The way Harry's earth among the stars metaphorically embodied his vision of a future without physical death.

A world where Snape praised her? No. That would be a world with bullies still.

And then she remembered Draco helping her up off the floor. Draco who caught her when she slipped on the roof. Draco who visibly distanced himself from all the antagonism directed at her. Draco who she couldn't believe wasn't plotting against her, because he was Draco Malfoy. Draco, who had been doing what was right against all expectation and incentive. It was a strange bittersweet happy thought she arrived at: a world where she could innocently believe in a Draco Malfoy who was helping her.

Her wand came up.

As she set her stance she realized that her world of hope and innocence, her happy thought against the darkness, was beyond her. That even if she made it a reality, there would be no place in it for her. But would Harry's world really have a place for him? _We pursue these things so that others may have them because we did not._

"Hermione... you're crying?..."

She ignored him.

"Expecto Patronum!"

A second glowing person joined the first in the pit of Azkaban.


	3. The Art of Negotiation

The first thing Amelia Bones actually ordered done was have the Wizengamot chambers sealed.

It had taken her almost half an hour to issue that order, by which time several observers of the day's proceedings had stumbled out the doors. For all that the order was slow in coming, she wasn't shy about exercising her authority to contain the disaster. The two aurors present had been sent with all due haste to secure reinforcements, post guards at the doors, and retrieve the escaped observers by time turner shortly after their departure.

The remaining observers were in various states of shock, easily quarantined for the moment. That left the survivors of the Wizengamot itself, who were too busy pestering her to go stumbling through floo transports or manhandling owls to disseminate the day's events. The most important thing, at this point, was keeping everyone else out. Some news was simply too dangerous to escape into the wild.

Something would of course have to be done about the bodies eventually, but magic was efficacious in the short term and involved bringing no one else into the chambers.

Amelia idly wondered just how many memory charms might be necessary when all was said and done.

"Director Bones." Dumbledore startled her from behind. She turned. "Minerva and I really need to be getting back to Hogwart's soon. If there's anything we can do to help, please, let us know." He was leaning on Professor McGonagall for support.

"Albus, I could really use your input in this situation." Of all the times the old meddler could choose to not stick his nose in...

"He's an eleven-year-old boy, Amelia. And for all that he has acted improbably and harshly, I cannot believe he has gone to darkness yet. I might suggest talking to him."

"I don't even know what to say!"

"You have a niece about his age."

"My niece does not command dementors to kill people."

"Hmmm... I take your point. And yet, he is still only eleven. He only thinks he understands what it is to fight a war. Help him understand just what he has done this day." Suddenly then Dumbledore pulled close to her, pulled her ear to his mouth and whispered into it. "I fear the bigger difficulty will be finding a way out of this dilemma that does not alienate Harry completely. We need him, Amelia. We need him to defeat Voldemort."

He released her then, and she quickly schooled her face to show no shock. Dumbledore's eyes met hers, measuring her.

"I'll do what I can."

"And Amelia, there are children at Hogwarts affected by the tragic events here today, it would be far better were they to hear from us first. Do let me know what should be said, I have full faith in your discretion."

She nodded, dismissing him.

"Director Bones, I fear I must take my leave as well."

"Lord Malfoy, surely as someone injured in recent events you have some stake in the outcome."

"Then I might do the sensible thing and ask Master Potter what he wants, and _give it to him_."

"Lucius!" said a startled Madam Longbottom, "Unpleasant yes, but I never figured you for a coward!"

"When faced with an obviously superior opponent, discretion is frequently the better part of valor," Lucius snarled at her. "Good day Director Bones, Madam, Lords and Ladies."

"And what, might I ask, is so pressing that you would run out on this meeting?" Amelia asked.

"My son needs me," Lord Malfoy muttered. More strongly he continued, "And I imagine anything I propose would receive rather scant support in present company. Good day." With that he turned on his heel and headed for the door, pausing briefly here and there when he happened across the bodies of those who had been close allies.

The survivors of the 208th Wizengamot looked at each other solemnly. If Amelia were a betting woman, she'd wager Lucius was quite wrong in his prediction.

"Is Lord Malfoy right? Do we just roll over and give Potter what he wants?"

"Director Bones, how would the aurors fare if they simply tried to apprehend him?"

She tried to imagine it. Her aurors descending into the center of Azkaban, depending on their Patronuses to protect them from the dementors within. She could see it so clearly. The patronuses popping out of existence. The dementors swarming her brave aurors. You can't duel a dementor. She shuddered.

Every face was turned to her expectantly.

"I might note that both Lucius Malfoy and Albus Dumbledore have for once given us surprisingly similar advice," Amelia found herself saying. "Maybe we should talk to Master Potter and see if we can't find a way out of this."

She looked over the remaining members of the Wizengamot slowly, gauging their expressions. It wasn't a real solution, it was a fishing expedition. There would be discussion yet. But at least now there was something concrete to discuss.

* * *

She stared in wonder at her Patronus, her glowing human projection of emotion and will. Last week she would have been elated, indeed, there was an electric feeling of joy at her accomplishment. But everything was burdened with history and regret, making her mood more marked by a sardonic gravity than anything else.

"Hermione?" She realized he had been saying her name for about five minutes.

"Now what Harry?"

"Look, I don't know how much time we have, this is... um... sort of taking longer than I planned already, and they could have been here almost as fast as we were, so..."

"And?"

"Well, its not enough to decide dementors are evil and say that. A Patronus feeds off emotion, not reason... Um..."

"Spit it out Mr. Potter." Her voice was unnecessarily sharp, but her patience was rapidly waning, and she was cold and wet and just remembering that she could have cast a warming charm except now her wand was maintaining her Patronus.

"Hermione I'm sorry."

"I certainly hope so."

"I'm not talking about... look. About 100 yards that way," he motioned with his free right hand, "is one of the walls of Azkaban. At the end of that wall is a tower. And in that tower, more than half way up, is a woman."

Harry's voice had taken on a seriousness almost ridiculous in his unbroken high pitch. But Hermione wasn't dwelling on the tone, it was the message itself that was surreal and frightening.

"That woman has been sentenced to relive her crimes over and over again, all while under the influence of the dementors. And she sits in her cell repeating to herself _No, I didn't mean it, please don't die!_ over and over again. And her voice is strong, she hasn't been here in Azkaban very long, the dementors haven't totally broken her spirit yet."

"Harry, why? What...?" she cried in panic and pain. Why was he telling her these things? It was horrible. She had only spent hours with a dementor, shielded by patronuses, and still she had felt sick. Inside her a flame, kindled when she had cast her patronus, ignited, burning with righteous indignation. Raw emotion poured down and out through her arm.

"She can't even remember the names of her children anymore," Harry continued, over her protests. "Maybe one year here, and her own children are lost to her."

Her Patronus grew then, and wonder mixed with horror as the light became brilliant, shifting from sapphire to white.

"And she's not even near the bottom. She's more than halfway up. There are cells all the way to the very bottom of the tower, right next to the dementors." Harry spit out the last sentence with venom.

She could see that his Patronus was undergoing a similar transformation to hers. He, too, was appalled by Azkaban. And as her Patronus waxed she could feel them, the prisoners of Azkaban, as the protective light spilled over them and shielded them.

Her dams broke and the silver light poured out from her as a river, wild and rapid, and she was almost emptied. But suddenly Fawkes was there, on her shoulder, cooing into her ear, and his warmth flooded into her and sustained her.

Harry Potter took her free hand in his then. He looked at her, and she could see the pain in his eyes. Though no more words were spoken, on this they were agreed.

Had anyone else been looking into the center of Azkaban just then, they would have seen one shining hominid patronus take the other's hand, standing together against the darkness of Azkaban.

* * *

Maybe Auror Li would have contacted Director Bones earlier if he understood the significance of his Patronus's bizarre fixed attention towards the center of Azkaban. But being stationed near dementors for long periods of time made the Patronus just another common everyday thing that got taken for granted. It protected you from dementors, that was what it did. It wasn't some sort of early warning system for unforeseen events. But so it was that Li's Patronus, and all the Patronuses of the other aurors in Azkaban, for that matter, had their attention fixed inward almost since Harry Potter had arrived. No one noticed.

However, when the window into the center suddenly lit up brighter than the noonday sun with silvery light, the aurors took notice. Li immediately contacted the DMLE home office, but by then it was too late.

When the light went out shortly thereafter, there wasn't a dementor left in Azkaban.

* * *

Whatever glowing light had suffused Azkaban was gone by the time Amelia Bones and entourage descended into its center, although the rain persisted as if nothing had changed. As the head of the DMLE and a member of the Wizengamot, she had volunteered to go as the body's sole representative, but certain others had insisted on coming as well.

Augusta Longbottom was not graceful on a broomstick, but she managed all the way down, ridiculous hat and all. Amelia had little idea why she had insisted on coming, but the old woman was cantankerous and unpredictable, and Amelia recalled she had a grandson in Harry Potter's class.

Theodorus Deas had also elected to accompany them, handling his broomstick with far more dexterity than Madam Longbottom. Mister Deas had been involved in the import and export of magical items and creatures, and little involved in politics, until near the end of the Wizarding War. When his wife was killed in the crossfire he had used his considerable economic influence to insert himself into the political life of Magical Britain, where he had been solidly against accomodation with Voldemort. He mostly drew his support from wizards engaged in businesses, and generally voted for measures that fostered peace and stability as he saw it. In the post-Wizarding War era, that generally meant siding with the likes of Dumbledore. If she couldn't fathom Augusta's presence, then Theodorus's insistence on accompanying them was as opaque as the worst riddle-twaddle from a Ravenclaw auror recruit. (And that was something she'd given up trying to figure out a decade ago).

They were flanked by four aurors. These aurors had patronuses out, because Amelia was not about to get eaten by dementors through negligence. They also had silence charms cast around their heads, and cotton stuffed in their ears in case the charms failed – its not like she was going to make it easy for Potter if this became ugly. That it was Azkaban made other precautions particularly tough to implement, because they couldn't apparate, portkey, or time turner within a mile in any direction. She wondered if that was intentional on Potter's part – not that he should have had any way of even knowing those things – but she was beginning to think that more than a healthy dose of paranoia was warranted at this point.

And if he did know those things, well, the location might be a defensive precaution on his part. Azkaban's future could not touch its past, which means nobody aware that Potter had come here could arrive before he did to ambush him. Given the events of the day thus far, Amelia was finding it surprisingly wise to assume that Potter, for all his youth, thought like Mad-Eye himself. The very idea was frightening.

The last of her precautions were a full twenty aurors on broomsticks well above Azkaban itself, and definitely outside of earshot, magically enhanced or not, of Potter. If necessary, they would do what had to be done.

The group landed without incident at the foot of the south wall, just below the auror station above. The patronus escort fanned out, covering Amelia and the two Wizengamot members from all sides as they proceeded northwards. Both Theodorus and Augusta were, like Amelia, keeping their hands well away from their wands, as instructed. This was to be a peaceful conversation if possible.

But you could tell something was wrong, almost immediately. Even with the patronuses, she should have felt something from the dementors. Where had Potter sent them?

Near the center she thought she saw figures ahead, vaguely outlined in the darkness and drizzle. Silently she signaled the more forward aurors to fall back a little, and strode calmly forward.

"Harry Potter? We just want to talk."

No answer.

She pushed forward through the gloom until the figures resolved themselves, and the stopped, confused. Harry was sitting crosslegged in the muck, the Granger girl passed out with her head on his lap. A phoenix – Fawkes? – perched on Granger's arm. Potter looked up at her when she stopped.

"Well hullo, I was wondering when you'd arrive."

She couldn't say anything, it was too incongruous. Augusta and Theodorus came up beside her on either side and similarly stopped.

"Adults have a strange way of wanting to talk."

"Ahem. Mister Potter," Madam Longbottom began, then stopped. She looked sideways at Amelia.

Amelia took a deep breath. "Mister Potter, as the duly appointed representatives of what's left of the Wizengamot, we've come to ask you what happens now."

"I surrender, of course."

Amelia blinked. Then she blinked again. "You... wait... what?"

"I surrender. There are conditions."

Amelia gave up. She wasn't paranoid enough for this.

It was Theodorus who managed to ask. "What conditions would those be, Mister Potter?"

"First, medical treatment for Miss Granger. Second, Miss Granger is released; no debts, no sentence, nothing. She goes back to Hogwarts or to some other suitable institution as she chooses. Third, well, I suppose we'll have to talk about the nature of my imprisonment, but that can probably wait for the time being."

The three representatives of the Wizengamot exchanged glances.

"Maybe we can continue this discussion somewhere other than in a freezing drizzle on an island of ooze that barely qualifies as land? Don't you want to take me into custody?"

Amelia shrugged her shoulders and was about to issue orders when Madam Longbottom blurted out, "But Mister Potter, what happened to the dementors?"

She didn't think she'd be able to erase the memory of his face, his eleven-year-old boy face, doing a fair impression of innocent youth, turning towards Madam Longbottom and saying sweetly "I ate them."

Amelia sputtered something unintelligible into her mirror instead of the command she intended.

"I'm sorry. I seem to have forgotten to snap my fingers."


	4. Truth, Consequences, and Creative Fictions

**Dementor Disaster**  
 **Wizengamot Decimated**

That was what the headline of the Daily Prophet proclaimed. The exact nature of the disaster was carefully unspecified. Causes were 'under investigation'. And assurances were most definitely made that the dementor in question was 'under control' thanks to the 'valiant efforts of aurors at the scene.'

Due to the volume of prominent obituaries, "Boy-Who-Lived Arrested for Underage Magic" was pushed back to page four. Like the front page, the story was littered with generalities and vague claims. The only statement that committed to anything stated simply 'Mr. Potter is being detained at the Ministry.'

Quietly slipping onto the back page was the innocuous article "Wizengamot Considers Prison Without Dementors". It attributed the supposed motion to the aforementioned disaster on page one. No mention was made of the fact that magical Britain had perhaps three dementors left anywhere on the islands.

Harry Potter folded the paper before setting it aside. The carefully-worded lies and weasel non-statements weren't much of a surprise. Between Lucius Malfoy's control of the paper, what was likely several False Memory Charms used on the reporters present, and crafted statements by Amelia Bones temporarily acting as the head of the government, the truth had been meticulously plastered over. It was hard not to respect the skillful cover-up. Harry wondered if most of the Wizengamot still remembered what happened.

He placed the Daily Prophet on the desk before reaching for the Quiddler, which had been under it. He almost dropped it in shock when he finally got a look at its front page. "Harry Potter Fires Opening Salvo Against Death-Eaters" proclaimed the headline. His mouth worked soundlessly. Apparently several Death-Eaters had attacked Miss Granger, but they had been thwarted by Harry Potter, and most of them were killed in the attempt. Then the Boy-who-lived and Miss Granger had vanished mysteriously to safety.

Harry burst out laughing.

He was sitting in a nicely appointed apartment, somewhere proximal to the ministry building. Presumably this was some sort of diplomatic suite, usually used to house visiting magical dignitaries. The unit, and three others like it, were accessible only by floo network. Despite the impossibility of him going anywhere, there was an auror in the hallway that connected the four units who had been ordered to make sure Harry didn't leave the room. He presumed Hermione was also on the floor, but, having decided that further provoking Director Bones was a poor idea, he hadn't been able to look in on her. But the auror had gladly provided this morning's entertainment, courtesy of the newspapers.

It couldn't be long before someone came to get him. They needed a resolution to this as much as he did.

* * *

When Hermione awoke, Dumbledore was standing over her, concern on his face.

"Miss Granger, it is good to see you awake."

She found herself in a strange bed. The room was mostly dark, illuminated only by something which also radiated heat and comfort, oddly placed above and behind her on the back of the bed. She rolled her head back, arching her spine slightly to afford a clear view, and was surprised to see Fawkes perched above her. Hermione pushed herself up to a sitting position.

"Headmaster, where...?"

"Somewhere safe, for the moment at least. Would that I could spare you this, but I must know. Tell me, what do you remember?"

Hermione couldn't bring herself to think of the events of the Wizengamot chamber, not with the peace radiating from Fawkes. But Azkaban was almost a happy memory. She brightened at the thought of the powerful light that had emanated from her. "...I cast a patronus. Harry helped me. It was so bright and pure, and... I could feel it... the peace... as it spread over the people... the prisoners..." She looked guardedly at Dumbledore.

"Is there anything else you..."

"Did you know?" She interrupted

Dumbledore arched his eyebrows in question.

"Did you know about the condition of the prisoners. Of how horrible it was."

There was pain in Dumbledore's eyes, but he was slow to speak. Hermione recoiled against the back of the bed.

"You knew."

"I knew."

"How could you?! How could you let that place exist?!"

The phoenix light brightened from a subdued flame to a blaze. In the harsh light, Hermione could see Dumbledore's shoulders sag a little. His eyes sombre. Overall he seemed diminished. Haggard. Hermione felt a pang of sympathy for him.

"I have no certain answers for you. For all its unspeakable horror, it was a symbol of justice and law to witches and wizards in these isles."

Hermione was looking past Dumbledore, was thinking about the woman that Harry described to her. "It was evil," she said flatly.

"I see that you, too, have learned to speak with what voice phoenices might speak, were they to talk. Maybe it was evil, I can no longer say. But I could not lightly wield power against all opposition, and then, its been a long time since I was a hero."

Hermione said nothing. Listening. Trying to understand the ancient wizard who before yesterday she would have proclaimed a beacon of goodness without question.

"I've been playing this game for too long, waiting for the next hero, for the cycle to repeat, for the story to go on. I thought it was my role, my duty as the mysterious old wizard, holding the fort until a champion was needed when darkness rose once more. But now I find that the hero doesn't need me as a mentor, and the one whom I thought would be champion keeps other counsel."

"Harry..."

"Harry has made his own choices, as he always has."

"Headmaster, how do I save Harry from himself?" Fawkes was now a dim glow, casting long shadows across the wizened face that looked down on her.

"I wish I had the answers for you, Miss Granger. But I am out of answers."

"How can Harry be a hero after... that..."

"Harry is not the hero I referred to."

There was a long moment as they looked at one another, the young witch and the old wizard. Her blood beat audibly in the silence, counting the seconds as they extended into minutes. Dumbledore gave her a sad smile that didn't reach his eyes.

Hermione couldn't stand that smile. It looked like defeat. She broke the silence first, grasping at the first thing she could think of. "Headmaster, will you be taking Fawkes with you?"

"A Phoenix is not ordered. It goes where its heart tells it to go. And like the Phoenix, the cause of the good and the light does not suffer permanent death, but is gloriously reborn. Reborn in the hearts of new champions who will carry on where others left off. The phoenix follows the light."

Hermione glanced at Fawkes again, who was looking down at her, head cocked. "I couldn't."

"He has chosen you, Miss Granger. Would you deny Fawkes his choice?"

She reached up to Fawkes, who nuzzled her hand briefly before stepping gently onto her wrist. She brought her arm down before her, across her body, feeling the warmth of the phoenix clearly. She didn't know what to say to Headmaster Dumbledore.

"Headmaster, I don't understand."

"Don't trouble yourself, young Ravenclaw, it is not your burden to bear. There will be plenty of others for you. And mysterious wizards would fail to be mysterious if we were so easy to understand."

Another awkward silence descended briefly. Hermione broke it quickly.

"And what happens to me now?"

"Mister Potter has secured your freedom. When you are fully recovered, you may return to Hogwarts. Professor McGonagall will be by later today."

"And what will happen to Harry?"

"I am uncertain. He is to be meeting with Director Bones and some others at this moment to discuss the situation."

She felt a succession of contradictory emotions about Harry. It made her stomach ache hollowly and brought tears to her eyes where they glistened, unshed, in the phoenix light.

"I don't want to see him."

"Then you won't have to."

She half-smiled. "Thank you for being here Headmaster."

Dumbledore stood straighter and nodded his head. Sensing the conversation had run its course, he slowly strode to the door from the room. He turned back to her, nearly lost in the shadows of the subdued light, his hand on the door.

"Farewell Miss Granger. May we meet again under happier circumstances." Then he was out the door, closing it softly behind him.

He was gone by the time she'd understood those two sentences.

* * *

Harry found himself within a rather plain room, boxy and mostly bare. Grey paint was in various states of peeling about the walls. A rectangular table and four chairs were the room's only ornament. The auror escorting him led him to one of those chairs, facing the other three across the table. Harry pushed the chair back on its rear legs slightly before spinning it about and then sitting on it backwards, straddling the seat and resting his chest against the back of the chair. He looked at the auror, but there was no reaction. The auror left him there in the room.

If their positions had been reversed, Harry would let captive Harry sit. Make him sweat. Of course, Harry had seen muggle crime dramas. The whole thing seemed trite and ridiculous now that he was actually sitting there. Its not like he was going to come to some deep realization about how much trouble he was in, he already knew that. He'd had plenty of time to think while waiting in Azkaban, and again this morning.

Harry was here because he wanted to be here. That gave him power. That gave him control.

To exploit that control he was going to need his dark side. He needed the clarity and he needed the threat of it just below the surface. So instead of thinking about guilt and consequences, he thought about pain. About the woman in Azkaban. About Hermione in the metal chair before the Wizengamot. He didn't fall into it though, but merely readied it, held like a pitbull on a tight leash with a trespasser before it. He was ready.

At last the door opened and three people filed solemnly into the room. Director Bones was first, stepping briskly to the center chair, crisp and professional. Lucius Malfoy followed behind her, taking the left chair. No surprises yet. The third was Professor McGonagall, moving with determination but without her usual energy. Harry forced himself not to frown. He'd been expecting Dumbledore. All of their faces were schooled masks of indifference.

Harry permitted himself a sly smile as McGonagall was seating herself. He was never going to get a better chance to say this. Before Director Bones could assume control by speaking first, he spoke confidently, "I suppose you're wondering why I called you here."

Three sets of eyes stared at him impassively across the table. But there was no backing down now. He was in control here. They were here because he had made them be here, and he wasn't going to concede anything he wasn't prepared to concede. This was _his_ meeting.

"Ahem. Mister Potter..." Amelia finally began.

"That's Potter-Evans-Verres."

" _Mister Potter,_ you do understand the severity and significance of your actions which cause this to be necessary?"

"Have you seen the morning paper? I especially liked the Quibbler headline." He relaxed with his arms crossed before him over the back of his chair.

Lucius's eyes darkened slightly, but he was otherwise the picture of stern composure. Amelia was giving him that look his father gave him when he was angry and wasn't going to let Harry change the subject. The only real reaction he got was from Minerva.

"Harry!"

He ignored her. "You're not looking for proof of my understanding. I would hazard at most one of you cares at all what's going on in my head. What you're looking for is reassurance for yourselves that whatever devil's bargain you make today is the right one. You're looking for guilt so that you can use it to control me. I will not utter meaningless reassurances and I will not be blackmailed by my guilt. Should you find any reassurance after our discussion, it will be because you have reasonably come to the conclusion that the outcome will be better than if we had not talked."

"Mister Potter, these..." Amelia began.

"Potter-Evans-Verres."

"Mister Potter-Evans-Verres," she sighed, "these are serious offenses against state and society."

"Offenses that you seem unwilling to make public. Although the news did make for entertaining reading this morning. Where is Dumbledore anyway?"

"The administration of Hogwarts is represented here, Mister Potter," McGonagall said sternly. Harry filed that under things to think about later.

"Before we talk about anything of substance then... has everyone been read in?"

Harry didn't expect an answer. Instead he paid careful attention to their reactions. Lord Malfoy raised one eyebrow slightly, nonchalantly. Director Bones pupils dilated just a little, her face assuming the poise of someone who knew they were composing their face to show no response. McGonagall's eyes glanced to her right quickly, her mouth open just a fraction, before she regained her composure. Her hands smoothed her skirt beneath the table in distraction.

"Well, I suppose that answers that. Thank you for your honesty."

"As fascinating as this is, Mister Potter-Evans-Verres," Lord Malfoy began, Harry's full last name sharp and precise, "would you please stop wasting our time."

Harry nodded.

"Mister Potter-Evans-Verres," interjected Director Bones. "I am not in the habit of making deals with cold-blooded mass murderers. Before we go any further you will tell me what in the Fiddly-Snocks you were thinking."

"Oh this should be a fun game. Let me guess, I try to find the explanation that I think you will find most sensible, and you try to tell how badly I'm lying?"

"What I want, Mister Potter-Evans-Verres, is the truth."

"That's a great set up, but my Robert DeNiro isn't very good. Maybe after puberty."

Silence.

"Very well. I could tell you that I chose the course of action that I did because I expected it to be better than the alternatives. That I was cognizant of the fact that many of the dead were either Death Eaters themselves or willing pawns of Death Eaters. That I couldn't necessarily name all the names but I'm certain you have your suspicions Director Bones. And that my action, while alarming on its own, will likely prove beneficial in the next war. That would be a lie, although there is certainly truth to it, but it was not what I was thinking. It would be a post hoc justification, and I try to be more honest with myself than that."

"But we shouldn't discard that observation either. Because even if I wasn't thinking that, my actions still have the same impacts, the same consequences."

"And what of the consequences, Mr. Potter, to Miss Greengrass," Professor McGonagall interjected. "She lost her mother yesterday. A mother who, to the best of my knowledge, was never a Death Eater, and never in their thrall. Or there's Theodore Nott, who lost his great-grandfather and guardian, a man who may have been sympathetic to the Death Eaters himself, but that is not salve for a child's grief. They're not the only children who lost family members, although they're the only ones you may have known well. Would you have liked to have taken my place last night when I told each of them. Seen those consequences first hand."

Harry closed his eyes briefly. Somewhere inside a part of him was screaming. He opened them again and met Minerva's gaze.

"And that, professor, is why I'm here, and why we're having this conversation."

He thought he saw relief, if only for a moment, in McGonagall's eyes. _No Minerva, you haven't lost_ _me to darkness, not yet._ But then it was gone or perhaps he'd just imagined it. He turned his attention back to Director Bones.

"What I was thinking was that any group which would condemn a twelve-year-old girl to Azkaban had such a fundamental values dissonance with me that conflict was inevitable. In effect they, and by extension of the power they wielded as the voting majority of the Wizengamot, the government of Magical Britain itself, had declared war on my values. I said as much to them. To you. I'm sure it did not help matters that the twelve-year-old girl in question was my friend, but I'd like to think that I'd object to anyone my age being sent to torture and murder masquerading as justice. I tried to forestall the conflict with a less drastic solution. I was blocked at every turn. There are some values which I will not sacrifice, not when it is within my power to protect them."

"And you still believe what you did was right," Amelia Bones said. It was not a question.

"It was. They were guilty the moment they voted."

"Self-serving nonsense." Lucius Malfoy pushed himself up from the table. "To hold a twelve-year-old girl's life above the lives of over fifty men and women? Preposterous."

"Should you happen to come across several armed thugs robbing a single man, their weapons drawn, do you protect the man or his assailants?"

"I'm not susceptible to your sophistry Mister Potter."

"You protect the man, Lord Malfoy, because its not just about the one man in his person, its about all the other possible men and women who could and will be in that place if the thugs are not dealt with."

He had raised his head and held Lucius's eyes while he spoke. And then he could feel it, the tiny feelers of legilimency scraping across the surface of his mind. Harry was going to let him find nothing, frustrate him with the fact of his occlumency, but then a wild idea took him. He brought two thoughts to the forefront of his mind, in front of his barriers. The first, something he had read in one of the recent histories. _All the power of the dark lord in his scar._ The second, a memory. The memory of his voice as he acted as the dark lord, just the voice, a chill whisper in the endless night of Azkaban. _Hello, my dear Bella. Did you miss me?_

In Harry's mind, but only in his mind, behind his occlumency barrier, there was a sound of fingers snapping.

Lucius stumbled back into his chair, toppling it and almost falling over himself. There was a brief look of pure fear in his eyes before he composed himself again. With deliberate slowness he bent down and righted his chair before reseating himself. Both McGonagall and Bones looked at him curiously before turning back to Harry.

"That seems to have established the facts of the matter," Director Bones said. "Now, as to Azkaban, what exactly did you do with the Dementors, Mister Potter."

"I believe I told you already. I ate them."

"Be more specific, Mister Potter."

"-Evans-Verres. And they are no more. Dust and less than dust."

"No one destroys their strongest weapon voluntarily," Lord Malfoy said, more to the two adults than the child they faced. Harry smiled.

"You conclude he is lying, Lucius?" Amelia said to him.

"That is one possibility," Harry offered, resting his chin on his arms. "There is another."

Lucius had not taken his eyes off Harry. Amelia and Minerva exchanged a worried look.

"Ahem. As to the terms of your incarceration..."

"I believe the only charge you're willing to make public is underage magic use, Director Bones."

"I could have your wand snapped for that alone, Mister Potter-Evans-Verres," the Director of the DMLE said sharply.

"Not that we would imagine doing such a thing to you, Mister Potter, of course," Lord Malfoy said.

This was going to take awhile.

* * *

In the end, it wasn't as bad as Harry had been willing to accept. Ten years of imprisonment, here, in the elegant apartment they had been keeping him in already. Access to tutors and educational materials – McGonagall had agreed immediately with him on that. Use of wand while supervised. Visitors permitted. It wasn't much different than his expected future at Hogwarts, albeit a bit longer and without peers readily available. Lucius had become an unexpected ally, and so Harry had merely had to steer the conversation in the appropriate directions and let it run its course.

The exact nature of the agreement would be a state secret, known only to the Wizengamot, who would ratify it tomorrow. It felt, to Harry, that he was being treated like a political prisoner more than anything else. Which made sense, in a way. There had even been a formal declaration of war. This was the peace treaty.

McGonagall had escorted him through the floo travel and back to the apartment, before going to check on Hermione. Harry had wanted to look in on her, but Minerva had been resolute that he should go to his rooms.

There was something slightly amiss when he entered, some nameless difference that he felt more than observed. Intuition making leaps with evidence his conscious mind hadn't fully processed. He walked over to the bedroom and opened the door.

Dumbledore was sitting in an upholstered chair, his purple robes blending into the darkness of the unlit room. His hat was in his lap.

"Good evening Harry. I thought we might speak one last time."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be a copyedit pass after the next chapter, which will also be the conclusion of this arc. The subsequent arc will feature substantially less Harry and focus more on Hermione, as it should given she's the title character. My crystal ball suggests Draco, Neville, Daphne Greengrass, Tracy Davis, and Hannah Abbott will all be making substantial appearances.


	5. The Dust Settles

 

 

Harry stared at the old wizard in the wan light that splashed through the doorway from the outer room. He was suddenly very tired. Had been hoping, in fact, to be able to let go of his control at last and let the events of the last couple days become real to him. But then here was Dumbledore, purple hat slightly crumpled in his hands, keen intelligence shining from his eyes with reflected light, and no doubt looking for answers. Yet if Harry's perception hadn't failed him, the headmaster looked older. More worn down perhaps.

"What would you like to talk about, Headmaster?"

"I remember a boy, not much younger than you are now, who once told me that he wanted everyone to live forever. But now fifty-five people are dead. And there was a phrase this boy used, _I notice that I am confused._ Well, so it is, I notice that _I_ am confused. What happened to that boy I knew?"

Harry stood there long moments, trying to compose a reasoned response, but all his carefully schooled control was gone, expended earlier. He had not the strength to summon it again. Instead he spoke, barely audible, "What would you have had me do?"

Dumbledore's eyes were hard. Measuring. But his voice was soft. "I confess, commanding a dementor to kill the people who disagree with you did not come to my mind as something that you might do at all, much less feel forced to do."

"They were going to murder her! As surely as if they'd cast the killing curse themselves!"

"For all that she is precious to us, Harry..." the old wizard reached out and put his hand on Harry's forearm. "For all that she is precious to us, she is just one girl."

"No." Harry shook off the hand, his voice going cold. "Do you have any idea how close you came to losing this war in those chambers?"

"Harry!"

"It's the Hermiones who make the fight worthwhile and necessary. Why do you think I'd defend a ministry who would simply slaughter them itself? If that's all that's left to lose, let Voldemort have it!" Harry was near tears, and he threw himself onto the bed, wanting nothing more than to be left alone.

Dumbledore stood, purple hat in his hands. He made no move to comfort. When he spoke, his voice low and sombre.

"I never said you should Harry. I formed the Order of the Phoenix, after all, because the government could not be trusted to fight the war itself. But there are plenty of good and decent people, other Hermiones, out there to fight for."

Harry made no response. He lay there and pressed his face into the pillow, but tears wouldn't come.

"What I fear is that you didn't spare a moment to think through the consequences to those other Hermiones. Have you endangered them more by your actions? When Voldemort comes openly, who will support you and who will oppose you? Before the lines might not have been drawn in black and white, but at least they had shape. Now the whole board is up-ended and the pieces in disarray."

Harry wiped at unshed tears, his eyes red, and forced himself to sit. "Its more than there being nameless good people out there. Hermione – she keeps _me_ good, Headmaster. I need her. Her specifically. Without her... without her I don't know whose side I'd be on, when it came to it. I don't think I'd take Voldemort's side, but then there's more than two sides, isn't there?"

"Many more than two, and yet before they were known. While I might have disapproved of Lord Jugson, as deserving a man as might be found anywhere for the fate you determined, I knew who and what he was. I knew he was Lucius Malfoy's creature, and a Death Eater, and a blood purist. I could contemplate an action and project how he would react, what he might do. In but a few short years, his son will inherit his seat, barely more than a boy at the age of seventeen. His son I do not know. No, not nearly so well as I knew the father. Multiply that by fifty-five and the actions of the Wizengamot become suddenly mysterious."

"Now, the truth of what happened cannot be kept from the Wizengamot. The survivors were of course there. They saw. But the heirs of the dead – those that come after them – they will know the truth of what happened in their time. They will know to blame you, and they will feel the loss of their kin more keenly than the survivors feel the loss of their colleagues. What remains of the Wizengamot can be reasoned with today, but in just a few short years it will be your enemy, if you even have that long. You have made your road harder, that is for certain, but how hard? I cannot say. The full consequences can only be known in time, and time is a precious commodity. You have condemned us to flailing about in the dark while Voldemort draws ever nearer."

"As for Hermione herself, Harry, I don't know if she will ever come back to you. You may have saved her, but you may also have alienated yourself from her forever." Dumbledore met Harry's eyes at the end and held them.

"I know, Headmaster. Still, she was worth it, even if she won't speak to me again. I need her to remind me why I fight. What to fight for. That she lives is enough."

Harry paused for a moment before continuing. "As for the Wizengamot – I think you overestimate their importance Headmaster. They were impotent before, and likely will be again. Their actions will be beneath notice. And if they are more incompetent about their business than you expected, that can only be to my benefit."

"And you saw no other way to save Hermione than what you did? I would not make enemies needlessly, no matter how inconsequential you feel them to be."

"Headmaster, they had their wands virtually drawn and pointed at her head. I tried to find alternate solutions. I tried to talk them down, to get them to put their wands away. I failed. At the end of the day, wand, head. The only answer to force is force. And I couldn't defend myself upon that instant should they seek to turn their wands on me. My actions needed to be improbable. They needed to be drastic. They needed to be sudden. And they needed to disarm my opponent – the government of magical Britain itself – and make it incapable of resorting to violence again afterwards. Anything less would have failed, quite possibly spectacularly. Just one of the survivors casting a lethal or even incapacitating hex on me would have killed everyone with the dementor loose. That didn't happen only because I _was_ sufficiently improbable, drastic, and sudden to make them hesitate."

"That doesn't mean fifty-five was the precisely right number, but there are limits to just how specific I could be." Harry's voice trailed off, but his thoughts raced on. _The people who were kissed got kissed because they expected to be, and everyone else expected them to be. I couldn't say something like 'kiss all the death eaters', because I don't know where the weight of opinion of the chamber would have placed that expectation. But people who voted for sending Hermione to Azkaban were an immediately identifiable group in the aftermath of the vote._ But he couldn't say that. Dumbledore wouldn't understand. He didn't have the frame of reference for the concepts involved. And besides, that knowledge was dangerous and exploitable. Far safer to leave it unvoiced.

His train of thought came to a safe place to resume, and he continued aloud. "And their votes had made them culpable in her attempted murder. It made them acceptable targets for retribution."

The headmaster sat beside him on the bed. When he spoke, he spoke facing away into the darkness of the room.

"I am concerned, Harry, that you are unwilling to let others even disagree with you. The Wizengamot thought, after all, that they were dealing with an attempted murderer."

"Should we treat with Voldemort then? Maybe we only have a disagreement." Harry's hands balled into fists.

"Harry!"

"When the Wizengamot does evil things and the good men and women who sit on it don't raise a finger to stop it, its no better than Voldemort himself."

The silence stretched, tense and uncertain. Harry found himself angry that he had to explain this. It should have been obvious.

"Have you no regrets?" Dumbledore finally asked, the kindness in his voice breaking the tension between them.

Harry, eyes wide and watery, held the headmaster's gaze. His anger abated. "I'm here, aren't I. I surrendered. Why would I be here if I didn't have regrets?"

"Harry, you are still an eleven-year-old boy. You can't bottle this up inside you."

"You were a hero once. Whose shoulder did you cry on?"

Albus Dumbledore had no response to that. They sat in silence for quite awhile.

Finally, Harry spoke, words said into the darkness and not to Dumbledore. "Maybe I'm not the hero they wanted. But I think I might be the hero they deserve."

Dumbledore stared at him sadly, but there was nothing more to say. And then there was only Harry and the darkness.

* * *

The door of the Headmaster's office flew open with a bang.

"Albus! I've been trying to see you for the last twenty-four hours! What in Merlin's name ha–" Snape sputtered to a stop. The sound of quill on parchment carried in the brief silence. "Minerva?"

"Good morning Severus." Minerva continued to write on the sheet in front of her.

"Where is Headmaster Dumbledore?"

"He's taken a leave of absence." She looked up. "You had news?"

"Voldemort is returned! Over half the Wizengamot dies under mysterious circumstances! And he chooses now to take a leave of absence!?"

"The headmaster was under a lot of strain. You had–"

"Do you have any idea how insane this is?!"

"Severus, I am really quite busy this morning."

He paused. "You're using his desk."

"I really couldn't be bothered to transfigure my own this morning. Now, either you have news that you wish to share, or you will let me get back to work."

"Yes, I have news." Snape composed himself. "Lucius sent no owls after... whatever... happened. No owls two nights ago. No owls last night. He had no visitors. He made no visits by floo or otherwise yesterday, except to the ministry. And aside from whatever ministry business he had during the day, he spent all his time in his study – alone or with Draco."

"And from this you conclude?"

"I don't know what to conclude. His political network was effectively destroyed in one day and he has done nothing."

McGonagall looked off for a moment before returning her attention to the potions professor. "Thank you Severus."

"This doesn't worry you at all?"

"I have to review the budget for the month, there's a meeting with the board of governors this evening that I must attend, disciplinary reports for several students from yesterday that I was unable to get to then which need reviewing, a detained defense professor that I will need to retrieve from the ministry, and sometime today I need to find time to grade thirty-five third year transmutation essays. And that's not even counting students who might need to see me today. I don't have time to be worried. Now, if that was all...?"

Severus stood there for a moment, pursing his lips. "The Headmaster's pet disaster, what role did he really play in all this?"

"Goodbye Severus."

Snape turned to go with a snarl of frustration.

"Oh, and Severus, while I'm acting Headmistress, I trust we will have the same arrangement you and Albus had?"

The potion master didn't answer as he strode from the room, the door closing behind him on its own.

* * *

Hermione hated keeping secrets. They gnawed at you, begging to escape into the open air. She especially hated secrets which forced her to lie to people. Which hadn't stopped her from acquiring several, although thankfully only one of them was one that anyone was likely to ask about. Of course, everyone wanted to ask, a fate she was saved from only because Professor McGonagall had, upon returning her to Ravenclaw Tower last night, been rather clear that anyone pestering Hermione about the last couple days would find themselves in an appointment with the Headmaster.

McGonagall hadn't actually said much to her last night. But she'd been abundantly clear that if anyone _did_ ask, Hermione would tell them that the dementor had escaped and gone on a rampage. She would not mention Harry's involvement. She would absolutely not mention Azkaban. She would not under any circumstances explain the riddle of the dementors to her classmates. And if anyone asked about the phoenix on her shoulder, she would tell them that was between her and the Headmaster.

There were only two other things that McGonagall had said to her last night. She'd of course asked if Hermione was alright, because that's the kind of person Professor McGonagall was. And McGonagall had requested she go to the Headmaster's office after breakfast.

Inevitably this meant that breakfast was an uncomfortable affair surrounded by inquisitive Ravenclaws who desperately wanted to ask but sat silent because they didn't want to end up in the Headmaster's office. Hermione almost wished they would ask, it would have been better than the uncomfortable silence. Maybe. She'd still have to lie.

And those were only her peers who were willing to sit close enough to her that they could have asked. Reactions to her arrest by aurors were apparently complicated, not that anyone was actually talking to her – as much as some of them apparently wanted to be – to even broach the subject. But in addition to the silence of unasked questions around her there were the dirty stares from farther down the table. And from the other tables, excepting only Gryffindor. They'd given her a standing ovation when she walked into breakfast, and she really wasn't sure how she should feel about that.

Hermione glanced up at the head table. McGonagall was absent, which wasn't terribly surprising given Dumbledore's parting words. Snape was also, thankfully, absent, as was Quirrel. Flitwick's attention was sternly on his house's table, although he did spare a smile for her when he noticed her looking. Sprout had a concerned expression on her face, her eyes flitting around the hall, frowning as she looked from table to table. And Trelawney was oblivious, as usual.

She was glad that Fawkes had been willing to stay in her room, at least she thought he'd stay in her room. If anything, the silence and the stares would have been that much weirder with a phoenix on her shoulder.

Her eyes wandered to the Slytherin table. Draco was not there. Hadn't been there when she came to breakfast. Draco, who was always there just when food arrived. Maybe he hadn't gotten back yet? She looked away; the half of Slytherin that wasn't staring daggers at her was studiously pretending she didn't exist. He was alright, wasn't he? She wasn't sure she'd be okay if he wasn't alright, even if she did choose to believe Harry that she hadn't done anything. No, that way lay madness. She had to believe Harry that she hadn't actually done it.

Hermione caught herself pushing food around her plate instead of eating. She put her fork down. No reason to delay this any longer. She felt eyes track her as she stood up from the table, turned, and walked towards the door.

Just before she reached the sanctuary of the doorway, however, there was Draco. Uncharacteristically late for breakfast, but there all the same. Her eyes went wide and she inhaled sharply. She thought she saw Draco flinch away from her, afraid, but then he schooled his expression, turning his nose up at her.

"Miss Granger," he sneered. Dismissive. Crabbe and Goyle glared at her over Draco's shoulders.

Hermione couldn't answer, not there in front of the other students. She closed her eyes and turned her head away, towards the wall. She felt the air shift as they walked past her.

"I'm sorry," she whispered into the wall, but there was no one still near enough to hear.

* * *

Hermione found herself before the solid oak door to the headmaster's office. The gargoyle had been waiting for her and stepped aside without any prompting. The spiral stairs hadn't taken nearly long enough. So here she was, standing on the threshold with some trepidation, and sorely tempted to go back down without entering. Maybe just tempted. Its not like Dumbledore was going to be there. It would probably be Professor McGonagall, which meant no crazy old wizard playing mind games with her, even if the crazy was only for pretend.

She realized this was the first time she'd come to this office by herself.

Hermione raised her hand to knock, but before she could lay knuckles to wood it swung open, leaving her caught with her hand raised and her mouth open in surprise.

"Do come in Miss Granger."

"How did..."

"Magic." McGonagall smiled.

"But that doesn't... That's not an answer!"

"I am glad to see you're feeling better."

Hermione supposed flustered was better than feeling guilty and weird and stared at. A chair was positioned before the desk, so she sat in it.

"So is there anything you want to talk about, Miss Granger?"

"I... you..." Wait, hadn't McGonagall insisted she come?

"Miss Granger, I understand it was a rough weekend, but you are only twelve. I thought you might want to talk about what happened."

Hermione chewed her lip, trying to put words to something. Anything. She must have been frowning because Professor – no, Headmistress – McGonagall was looking at her with slightly more concern. "I'm not sure how I'm supposed to feel about everything. I mean, there's the awful memories of me actually doing that to Draco, and whether they're real or fabrications like Harry insists, I still have them. And then there's the awful... of listening to Harry... his willing to do just about anything... give away his fortune... risk his life... and listening to that with a dementor right behind me. And then there's the horror of the dementor loose and killing people. And..."

"Miss Granger – Hermione – a twelve-year-old girl shouldn't have to live with such things. I can take those memories from you, if only for a time."

"No!" Her vehemence surprised her. "I mean, there was awful and horror, but there was also a shining moment of light in Azkaban, and I don't think the one makes sense without the other. And how can I make up for what I did or think I did if I can't remember?"

"But you didn't do anything."

"I did! I went to breakfast as if nothing had happened, and I knew! Good girls shouldn't do that! Heroes shouldn't do that."

"Hermione, in my experience, no one is that good."

"Well they should be! And how can I apologize to Draco if I can't remember what I did wrong?"

"... Apologize?"

"I suspected him of plotting against me and he wasn't. He was helping me, or thought he was, in his own mysterious Slytherin way. I heard his testimony read out just like you did." Hermione paused for a moment. McGonagall had also witnessed the dementor's attack. "Headmistress... how are you doing... after..."

Was the usually unflappable Headmistress taken aback?

"I... no one has thought to ask me that. Thank you. I'm... well, mostly I'm disappointed in Mister Potter."

"Oh." She was chewing on her lip again and made herself stop. "Is Dumbledore ever coming back?"

"I don't think I can give you a good answer to that."

"He seemed so sad when we spoke yesterday. Worn out."

"I didn't realize he had been in to see you."

"Headmistress McGonagall, what's going to happen to Harry?"

"Mister Potter will not be coming back to Hogwarts, I'm afraid. He's agreed to be incarcerated, admittedly under rather generous circumstances, for awhile. I could arrange for you to visit if you'd like."

"No. No, I don't think I want that..."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

Her feelings about Harry were... complicated. Yes, that was definitely the right word. How could she even begin to make sense of them?

"He's just so terrifying, and meddling, and unpredictable, and I can't believe he did that for me..." She couldn't believe she was actually vocalizing this, but she couldn't stop now. It just exploded out of her mouth. "I mean... the things he offered for my freedom... I don't know how to feel about that. How he was willing to give away all his money and possibly sacrifice his life for me. How is a person supposed to feel about that? And then he killed people. For me. Can you do that and still be good? Because there was so much light inside him in Azkaban. But he didn't ask. He never asks. And–"

"Hermione."

"And there was a thing he said, awhile ago, about how he could try to keep me safe and protected, but he knew how that part of his life would go and he was skipping it, and I honestly have no idea what part of his life that would have been, but I'm finding that sentiment deeply worrying..."

"Miss Granger."

"I mean – he's not my boyfriend!"

"Miss Granger!"

Hermione managed to stop her mouth from working, although her brain hadn't managed the same. It kept running at sixty kilometers a second inside her head. Wait. Did McGonagall look... uncomfortable. The sight of the frown on McGonagall's face while she searched for something to say finally brought Hermione's brain to a halt in a train wreck of unvoiced sentiment.

"Boys... boys are complicated." The Headmistress sighed. "No, not just boys, people are complicated. But it's alright if you have feelings for him and think he did wrong."

"But its not about feelings. Well, not about those kinds of feelings." Hermione managed a frown. "I'm not convinced he was wrong."

"Hermione! He killed fifty-five people! He blackmailed the entire government!" She paused briefly before continuing, almost under her breath. "And I fear he broke the Headmaster."

"He's the only person who went in there with me as his highest priority. The only person. No one else was willing to be responsible _for me_!"

"I'm not sure responsible is–"

"Everyone had some other agenda, even Dumbledore. Only Harry was willing to do whatever it took to save me. Which is extremely worrying and I really don't know how to feel about that. But I'm here and not being eaten by dementors, now, solely because of Harry."

"I'm really not sure considering Mister Potter responsible is a good idea..."

"No, of course not. Harry... I'm not sure he's good enough for the kind of responsibility he sees himself as having."

"I'm glad we agree."

"Which is why I need to hurry up and learn as much as I can because someone has to be responsible for saving magical Britain from Harry." That really wasn't what she'd been intending to say.

" _Miss Granger!"_

"I don't think anyone else can do it," she finished. "Harry won't listen to anyone else. Not really. Not like he'd listen to me. Its the only way I can keep everyone else safe."

"No one person should have to feel responsible for so much. Miss Granger, you're only twelve!"

Later, Hermione wouldn't be able to say why she said it. She could see how shocked McGonagall was afterwards. Had grimaced as she stood up and mumbled an apology before she fled the room. But she'd said it all the same, the last words Godric Gryffindor had penned in his biography, in roughly accented latin.

"Non est salvatori salvator, neque defensori dominus, nec pater nec mater, nihil supernum."

After that, well, there really wasn't anything left to add to the conversation. And as it was she was going to be late to Herbology.

* * *

"Daphne, you should come down for lunch."

"Go away Tracey."

Daphne lay sprawled on her bed, her face buried in a pillow.

"You already missed class this morning. And breakfast."

"I don't care!" A sob escaped the girl, and she started crying again.

"Daphne, you have to come down sometime. Maybe you want to talk about it?"

Tracey dodged the flying pillow which suddenly launched itself from the bed at the end of Daphne's arm. The scion of the most ancient and noble house of Greengrass sat glaring at her, eyes red, tears running down her face, and hair in disarray.

"My mother is dead. Go away and leave me be." And with that Daphne turned and buried her head in another pillow, muffled sobs escaping into the room.

This just wouldn't do at all. Her friend was hurting. There had to be something Tracey could do to fix this. Or at least make it better.

"Might as well leave her to mope," Pansy Parkinson said as Tracey walked back into the common room. "She clearly doesn't care."

What kind of Slytherin would she be if she couldn't come up with something, some clever plot to help fix this. A smile broke across her face, a sharp unfriendly smile she directed at Pansy. She'd had an idea. Oh yes, she'd show them. She'd show them all.


End file.
